Rising Sun
by Lady NeverAfterNon
Summary: A routine hunting trip out of the range of the Leviathans takes a turn for the worst. Dean has been cursed with a tattoo- once it reaches his heart, it will kill him, consume his soul, and create a man eating monster. Could it get any worse? Oh, yes. Someone else is attempting to take over the world. Dean/OC Sam/Sarah Blake. R/R please!
1. Chapter 1 Rising Sun

**Author's Note:** _This takes place roughly before the end of the season 7, ish. I wanted to explore more of Bobby's death, mainly because I'm not ready to say goodbye to the character. It should be known that my foreign language comes watered down college classes taken for the credit and also, this lore is either made up or comes from Wikipedia, so if that irks people I'm sorry for it. I am also going to mention__that the names I'm using for my OC characters are nods to different horror films and horror film characters in keeping with the Supernatural theme, so if you recognize any that's what I'm up to._

_Feedback would be much appreciated! Please read and review, I love hearing from you!_

**Disclaimer:** _I own nothing._

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**Rising Sun**

**By:** _Lady NeverAfterNon_

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Dean slumped in frustration, banging his forehead on the Impala's raised hood, and swore. The unforgiving New England sun, completely unhindered by any clouds whatsoever, was roasting the back of his neck. He had a sneaking suspicion that his skin was well on its way to winning first prize at a lobster impression contest. Despite the heat, though, woods around him smelled mucky and alive, and the humid air was teeming with bugs.

It was an all you could eat Winchester buffet. Of all the places his Baby would choose to break down, it had to be in the middle of the Adirondack Mountains, in full summer, with the local insect life hungry for plasma. He swatted another enterprising mosquito before reaching in through the driver window to turn the key again.

The Impala's engine coughed and spluttered, and almost didn't turn over. The Chevy's familiar purr was punctuated by a shudder, nearly dying before catching itself. It settled into the familiar pattern of _surge, run, choke, nearly die, surge_, that informed him that he had once again failed to trouble shoot the problem.

Dean bent back further under the hood, wondering what he should poke at next. The sound reminded him of a cylinder misfire, which he hoped was not it. The Impala ran on six cylinders, and one out of commission wouldn't really affect the overall performance, but the idea of allowing his Baby to run at anything less than perfect would not fly. He wished he had a computer to run a diagnostic but their chosen profession wouldn't allow it.

He and Sam couldn't afford to lug expensive automotive equipment because one, it took up too much space, and two, the supernatural critters they hunted were good at collateral damage.

"Come on baby," he muttered.

Dean pulled a hose and the engine revved strong, and it choked and nearly died when he replaced it.

Well, not a misfire then. Thank god for small graces. There was a clog somewhere in a vacuum line and it was causing the engine to shudder. Not a serious problem, not yet anyway, but without the right equipment it would be eventually.

Maybe Sammy and him could loot a automotive shop? Nah, bad idea. Dick Roman put them on the map, no need to add fuel to the flame.

Besides, a little light robbery might ruffle a certain angel's feathers. Dean had gotten pretty good at Castiel's preferred method of communication: any board game or card game anyone cared to mention. Unfortunately it didn't always work. He glanced over his shoulder.

Castiel was standing a few yards away, clutching a long bow and looking uncertain. Some habits, in this case angelic ones, died hard. Cas still hadn't come to terms with his past, and was cleverly sidestepping all of Dean's attempts at getting him to talk. Stubborn bastard.

The stench of rotten garbage and weed and cat poo hit him in the nose like a punch, and he gagged. His train of thought derailed right in its tracks.

Ugh, nothing like eau de butcher's dumpster in mid July to spice things up and make their job _really_ pleasant.

"How's the car coming?" Sam called, "The Lindworm is on its way back around again."

"No kidding, I can smell it a mile away," Dean muttered, rooting around in the Impala's engine.

"It threw up on the trunk of your car. There's a hole melted in the frame."

Bobby's ghostly outline flickered into shape near Dean's elbow. The grizzled old hunter was barely visible in the bright sunlight, and there was an odd echo to his voice. When Garth had suggested the possibility that perhaps Bobby was haunting them, Dean had shut that idea down hard.

In hind sight though, he should have known better that to write off something so cavalierly, especially in their line of work. The first time Bobby had appeared, Dean had just gotten out of the shower. He nearly had a brain aneurysm when he saw vague outline of his mentor flickering near his towel. Yep, that had been a weird conversation, though he was beyond glad to have Bobby back.

"You know you have a clog in your line, right?"

Dean rested his forehead on the back of his filthy, sunburned hands and groaned. "Yes, Bobby. For the love of God, yes I know. Go poke at the puking turtle and leave me alone."

"It's not a turtle, idjit." Bobby flickered out, swearing cut off abruptly. The old man hadn't fully mastered all of the perks of being a ghost, but he could cause their foes a margin of discomfort. In this case, the mission was: corral a mythical lizard with an irritable stomach so they could hack it up into chunks and destroy its egg clutch so it didn't make more irritable lizards.

Sam loaded his crossbow with heavy oak bolts and then dipped the arrow's tip in a can of gasoline, all the while keeping an eye on the river.

The Lindworm's smell showed up before it did.

The hunters breathed through their mouths, each trying to keep the overwhelming nausea from knocking them flat. The lore Sam pulled from Google had been very forthcoming on the Lindworm's poisonous bite and aquatic habits, but the articles had neglected to touch on the fact that-

"-Ass," Dean griped loud enough so that his brother could hear him, greasy fingers slipping on the Impala's vacuum lines, "It smells like ass, Sam, and your laundry bag."

Sam rolled his eyes, not rising to his brother's bait. "Everything is ass to you, Dean. Ass and boobs."

Dean stuck his tongue out at his brother.

"I don't understand," Castiel cocked his head, perplexed, "Sam does his laundry regularly. And how could an 'ass' even get into a laundry bag? Donkeys are notoriously stubborn."

Dean sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, then wanted to punch something in frustration when he realized he'd given himself a grease unibrow. "It was a joke, Cas."

"Your jokes do not make sense."

"No shit." Dean wiped his dirty hands on a rag; Castiel was human but his sense of humor was still unfailingly absent. They'd have to keep working on that.

Dean popped up out of the engine when the Lindworm come splashing out of the river surrounding their small little island, fat little legs jiggling its large rubbery bipedal body like tapioca pudding in a ziploc baggie. The Lindworm was a tad under eight feet tall with pebbly skin a shocking shade of lime.

When they had researched the Lindworm, all of the illuminated medieval manuscripts depicted it as colorful, like some sort of tropical bird. Dean had brushed the pictures off as the results of a cloistered monk with too much time on his hands. As it turned out the Lindworm was really, really, hard to miss. On top of bright green, it had a red ruff that flared out around its head when it was mad, which appeared to be all the time.

The Lindworm hissed, sounding a lot like a pissed off cat, and bits of corrosive venom pitted the ground in front of them.

Dean gripped a wrench, his car problems temporarily forgotten, watching the Lindworm with a baleful eye. "I swear, if that- that _drool_ hits my car again I will fuc-"

"Yep," Sam said not really caring to pay attention to how colorful his brother could get. Dean could make a sailor blush with his language when the prompting was right. Sam stooped, dipping the crossbow bolt into the campfire. The tip exploded into flames. The internet hadn't been clear on what type of bolt was needed but it had been quite specific on fire.

Dean bent back over the Impala, still keeping one eye on the battle. He trusted Sam to take care of things, but that didn't mean he had to do it nicely. Between the sun, the bugs, and the giant fat vomiting dinosaur, he was seriously losing his patience.

Bobby's fuzzy outline appeared behind the Lindworm and the grizzled old hunter shoved both fists into the Lindworm's spine. The Lindworm screeched, pausing in its assult. Sam took advantage of the pause to let fly another flaming bolt that struck the lizard in the gut.

It was a good thing the Lindworm wasn't all that bright, though.

It kept forgetting that Sam had been sticking it with flaming arrows for the better part of an hour. It would run away in pain, and then forget it was losing and come charging back a minute later. When it got close enough, Sam took careful aim at the head. The crossbow twanged and a feathered bolt appeared in the Lindworm's round glassy protruding eye. The Lindworm shrieked and then vomited another pile of grayish yellow acidic sludge that smelled even worse than its owner did.

Dean swore, wishing again that he had more than his emergency tool kit. "If it's not dead in the next thirty seconds I will beat it to death with-" he cast around looking for something suitable, "-your iPod, Sam."

"Steve Jobs didn't exactly make weapons of war," Sam said, reloading, never taking his eyes off of the angry oversized lizard.

"Actually," Castiel started, "Something amusing-.

"Don't even go there," Sam interrupted. He did _not_ want to know.

"There's always a first for everything," Dean said, voice muffled by the clanking of his tools, "I'm hungry, I stink, my car is broken, I've donated blood to half of New York's bug population, and-"

Something in the Impala's engine compartment snapped. "Goddammit!"

Sam watched the Lindworm be violently sick again, six feet from Dean's precious car and chuckled. Poor Dean. The younger Winchester raised his crossbow and aimed again.

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The woman jerked awake in the dark, not entire sure what had woken her.

Her heart fluttered in her chest like a caged bird. She rested a hand over her sternum, vowing again to watch her diet and get into better shape. The doctor had warned her that even though she was thin and not all that old, if she didn't take care of herself she could risk a stroke. She pushed the sheets back wondering if she should get out of bed. It was two A.M. and it was a long day tomorrow. The drive in to the city would take only a few hours, and she needed to be alert. The French embassy in New York was due for an inspection, and she did not relish the task of sorting through the affairs of over a hundred employees.

The dark shape of her bodyguard hulked at the foot of her bed and she relaxed. He would take care of whatever it was. He had done a customary check of the house when they had got back last night from the state dinner party, and now he could do another one. It was what he was paid for, after all.

"_Jacques?"_ she called softly, "_Mon ami, je suis desole, mais_-"

She paused. Jacques was unnaturally still. A sense of dread settled in her stomach like something cold and slimy. Something that would watch her with eyes like luminous lamps, and teeth like needles. She swallowed, mouth dry. She fancied she could see those eyes now, hovering in the darkest corner of her room, near the ceiling. She mentally smacked herself.

She was being silly. She slipped from the sheets, bare feet resting on the cold wood floor.

She steeled her nerves. She was a grown woman, for cryin' out loud. Old, to hear Grandfather Bustillo tell it, as she was forty and she and her husband were still childless. The old geezer was still stuck in the dark ages but he was family and so he could how to stick it where it hurt. She took a deep breath, giving herself another mental smack. She needed to get a hold of herself. Grown women didn't jump at shadows.

Something soft and furry brushed her ankles.

A scream caught in her throat. An animal, perhaps? That was absurd, there were no animals in her Kingston townhouse. She leapt from the bed, darting to the doorway.

Jacques' body fell across her way and she instinctively grabbed for him in relief, thinking that the man was still asleep. He could sleep through anything. Then she really did scream. Something had scratched out his eyes, leaving nothing but bloody gaping holes. His body was cold and stiff and rubbery and very, very dead.

The woman scraped her sweaty palms on her nightgown, trying to rid herself of that unforgettable texture of death.

She dropped his body and ran for the door, white silk nightie tangling around her legs.

The pitter patter of quick soft feet followed her down the hallway, and dimly she thought she could hear something laughing. High pitched and giggly, like a child. The woman was good and scared now.

She did her best to concentrate on the pounding of her ownsteps, rather than the unnatural ones of her pursuer. Something soft and furry, but with the strength of a band of steel, curled around her ankles. She went down hard, palms stinging as they braced her fall. She began to claw at the thing cutting the circulation off in her feet, sobs threatening to choke her. Her nails scraped at nothing but animal fur; there was no flesh beneath it. Her struggling was fruitless. Whatever it was curled around her ankle held her like a steel vice. It began to pull her across the floor back toward the yawning black hole of her room to the waiting pale eyes and the pattering footsteps.

She screamed again, nails leaving jagged white lines in the wooden floor.

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"Did you bring the machete?" Sam called, watching the Lindworm's final death spasms.

"Trust you boys to not be prepared," Bobby grumped, voice faint as he faded in and out, "What if it wasn't dead? What would you do then? Cross your fingers and hope for the best?"

Dean closed the Impala's hood and patted the sun warmed black metal fondly. He had finally remembered the spare hose in the trunk, miraculously free of corrosive venom. Problem solved, which meant he was pretty damn happy. He ignored Bobby's grumpiness and looked over their machetes. Unlike automotive stuff, they had a lot of machetes. "Which one, Sam? Silver or normal, or does it matter?"

"Normal, which you'd know if you hadn't snuck out to the bar."

He chose to take the high road and ignore Sam's jab at his extracurricular activities. "Comin' right up."

Dean split the Lindworm from rectum to throat with the machete, suddenly grateful for the hunting trips Bobby took them on as kids, even if he doubted the grizzled old hunter had intended the game dressing lessons for mythical territorial lizards that smelled worse than his brother's first college dorm roommate. Gutting the Lindworm wasn't all that different than gutting a deer.

The brothers rolled up their sleeves and began rooting around in the Lindworm's cooling body. The Lindworm's intestines were used in scrying, and the gallbladder had medicinal properties if prepared correctly. It was disgusting, but most hunter apothecaries paid good money for the parts: Dean was elbows deep in putrid lizard guts for a reason.

Sam gagged.

"One that barfs first has to walk back," Dean challenged.

Sam pulled out a string of intestines and rammed them into a plastic garbage bag. "You smell just as bad as I do. Your car will reek whether one of us pukes or not."

"Chicken."

"Oh that's mature. I recall someone having a tantrum with a wrench a little bit ago."

"I would have made big and ugly my bitch. Not stuck it with arrows and got puke everywhere."

"Yes," Sam said snidely, "It would have been a genius plan dude. Then I'd be picking _you_ out of here along with entrails."

Dean raised the Lindworm's massive two chambered heart like a football. Castiel took a wise step back, and Bobby flickered into the visible spectrum long enough to slap a gray see-through hand over his gray see-through face.

"You throw that at me and I will end you," Sam warned his brother.

Dean had never been one to follow orders or requests all that well. The heart hit Sam square in the chin with a wet_splat_.

"You are so dead." Sam pulled the Lindworm's stomach out, jiggling the sack like a lime colored water balloon.

Dean tried to dodge, but the rubbery stomach sack hit him square in the chest. It exploded in a shower of acid and stench, and whatever the Lindworm had eaten before it died. Dean peeled the corpse of a dead squirrel off of his stomach.

"I hate you."

Sam grinned. "Don't dish out what you can't take."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Boys-"

Dean flicked his fingers and the dead squirrel sailed at Sam, who ducked. "Truce?"

"Truce."

"Now ain't that adult of you both," Bobby grumbled.

Castiel refused to budge from his safe distance away. The angel was typically scruffy, but he was also very fastidious in keeping himself clean. He'd nearly had an apoplexy when the Lindworm demonstrated its skills at regurgitating its stomach contents.

Dean gasped and doubled over. Something on his hand burned like white hot fire and his hand spasmed. The muscles clenched against his will, like he'd stuck a finger into an outlet.

"What is it?" Sam was by him in an instant, all the joking gone from his tone.

Dean straightened when the sharp pain left as quickly as it had come. He looked down at his left hand incredulously, like it belonged to someone else.

Where the hell had _that_ come from? The Lindworm was poisonous, sure, but Dean hadn't been poking around in its face. The only thing on his hand was a thin strip of white paper. Watery ink calligraphy was scrawled all over it. Together they faintly resembled a bug, or some sort of snake. He plucked it off, slightly weirded out that it hadn't disintegrated in the Lindworm's stomach.

The paper came off easily enough, but the ink remained on his hand like a cheap dime store stick on tattoo.

The marks shone wetly on his skin. They wound around his thumb and across the back of his hand, stretching towards his wrist.

"It's a centipede," Sam said, squinting at it. He held his brother's wrist gingerly, as though he half expected the ink to decide to change hosts.

The ink lay inert, however. Dean flattened out his fingers, and then made a fist, waiting to see if the burning pain would return.

Castiel joined them. Dean watched the angel's face, trying to judge from his expression how serious the thing on his hand was.

Cas frowned, touching it with one finger. "It is kanji," he said finally, "A centipede made of kanji."

"What does it say?" Dean asked, frowning at it.

Castiel shrugged and looked appologetic. "I lost most of my omniscience when I murdered half of heaven and fell. I do not know."

"Great," Dean growled, shaking out his hand like he could flick the mark off.

"I am sorry, Dean," Cas said emphathetically, "I tried to get it off when I touched you. It almost felt like it was repelling me."

"You're a freaking angel!" Dean shouted.

Cas looked sad. "Not as such, not anymore."

Dean sighed, knowing he was being an ungrateful ass. He knew Castiel would help if he could. "Sorry dude," he said quietly.

The angel nodded, still looking unhappy, but at least he hadn't disappeared on them. Baby steps.

Sam chewed his lip. "Care to weigh in, Bobby? Bobby?"

All three of them looked around, noticing that Bobby had disappeared again. "Dammit," Dean said, though he wasn't really surprised. The hunter's ghost didn't last long in full sunlight.

"Don't worry," Sam said, "We'll figure this out and get that thing off of you."

"Right," Dean said, with a bravado he didn't feel.

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Nathalie Bustillo's body was discovered by her housekeeper when the woman came in at seven. The panicked screaming got the attention of the neighbors, and before the homicide detectives even arrived, the news of the French Ambassador's death and that of her bodyguard were plastered all over the internet and later the six o'clock news.

When the crime scene had been photographed and gone over with a fine toothed comb, the bodies of Bustillo and her bodyguard were taken out.

The coroner noted the gaping holes where their eyes used to be, and forensics had to take a lot of pictures in order to get all the bloody feline paw prints in the house: they covering the floors, the walls, and the ceiling. the case was certainly a weird one. The detectives were stumped. Except for the paw prints, there were no signs of forced entry and the townhouse's security system was untripped and showed no signs of tampering.

The cops had no leads, but due to Bustillo's extensive connections they kept the case open, giving regular updates to the media.

Detective Jason Valdez of the Kingston Homicide Unit was more annoyed than usual when he left the scene with his partner. He didn't like the growing stack of deaths that had strange and creepy stamped all over them on his desk. It made the Kingston PD look bad because they took too damn long to solve. Sure, everybody got cold cases now and again, but dozens in the past few months? It was weird, and not good for his career.

Not to mention that he hated cats.

He flipped his collar up and hunched his shoulders against the insistent questions of the newsies clustered like roaches around the entrance to the townhouse. Nope, this did not bode well at all.

He left his partner to handle them. Krieglerson was better at dodging reporters' questions than he was. He tended to get annoyed more often than not, and usually ended up sayings something to reporters that the Police Department would regret. Valdez got into their unmarked charcoal grey Crown Vic to wait. One part of him rankled at the fact that the media dictated the pressure on the case, but the other part of him couldn't help but consider the fact that something else was going on.

He hoped it had nothing to do with the Peace Summit meeting in four weeks, that it was just random killings and bad luck. If only they could be that lucky.

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_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2 Killer Tattoos, Apparently

**Author's Note:** _If you recognize something that is inherently wrong and it rankles you, feel free to point it out. Other than that, Please read and review! Feedback would be very much appreciated guys! PLAYLIST: _Don't Tread On Me_ by _Metallica_,_ Hold Your Head Up_ by _Argent_, _Come Sail Awayby Styx

**Disclaimer:** _I own nothing_

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**Chapter 2**: Killer Tattoos, Apparently.

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Dean pulled the Impala into the dirt parking lot of a dingy Best Western and shut off the engine. His fingers uncurled from the steering wheel and he pulled back his sleeve, examining his left hand. The image of the centipede had certainly gotten darker, and was it his imagination or had the tattoo gotten bigger? As he looked at it a fresh wave of pain hit his hand. Dean's eyes squeezed shut and he rested his forehead against the steering wheel. He was glad Sam and Cas hadn't come to the store with him. He was acting like a girl.

The pain disappeared a second later, as abruptly as it had come, leaving him trembling and cold sweat standing out on his forehead. He held up his hand. The centipede _had_ definitely gotten bigger this time: the tattoo stretched a full inch farther up his arm. He flexed his fingers, trying to work the stiffness out of them. Dammit. Why couldn't things be normal, for once? It was one thing after another.

He and his brother couldn't catch a break. The Universe wouldn't even let them have a breather before it threw something else at them.

"You look like shit."

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin. Bobby was sitting in the back seat of his car, perfectly outlined in the rear view mirror. Dean didn't turn around, he knew how these things worked. Bobby didn't have the best control over his ghostitude, and someone turning around and looking right at him often broke the spell at the best of times. The worst? He stayed invisible and wafted cold air around a room like a bad AC unit.

"Yeah," Dean muttered, going back to studying his hand, "Tell me something I don't know."

Bobby snorted. "Sooner or later kid, your cavalier attitude is gonna bite you in the ass."

"You may have mentioned that a time or two before. Do you know what this is?" Dean asked, waving his new tattoo.

Bobby shook his head. "Other than the fact that it's formal kanji, no. I suggest you get someone to read it for you."

"Perfect. I woulda never thought of that." Dean rested his forehead on the Impala's steering wheel again, eyes closed. The tattoo was starting to burn again, a dull throb that radiated up his arm and back down to his fingers.

"I didn't say I couldn't help," Bobby snapped, "Don't write me off. I got a buddy that could help you out."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Pull out yer dad's journal. This time you won't have to pay some two bit sushi chef."

Dean popped open the glove box and retrieved the small ratty book that held his dad's legacy.

"Open it to the addresses," Bobby ordered.

Dean did as he was asked. "Bossy much?"

"Shut up and toss it back here."

Dean rolled his eyes and held the journal over his shoulder, not looking backwards. "I feel like I'm thirteen again and holding the truck stop bathroom door shut for Sammy."

There was no retort.

"Bobby?"

Dean glanced into the rear view mirror and saw that Bobby had pulled another disappearing act. He sighed and flipped the journal open to the addresses, then raised an eyebrow when he saw the name and number that had been scorched into the page: Kaneto Otowa, and then the number for a Shinto monetary.

He snapped the journal closed and stuck it into his jacket. That would be something to look into tomorrow, but for now a beer, bed, and the newest Busty Asian Beauties mag. His ass was beat and it had been a very trying day. He locked the Impala and headed for the hotel room, opening and closing his left hand. The burn had faded, but the limb felt stiff and slightly numb, like the ink centipede was sucking the feeling out of his hand. He clenched his fist. The stupid thing needed to be off him, and yesterday. The night air was a cool relief from the baking heat of the day, but for some reason he couldn't calm down. For once he didn't appreciated the wet smell of steaming pavement after the light storm that had passed through earlier in the day.

He was jacked, and on top of that his hand was starting to hurt again.

Save for Cas, the cramped dingy hotel room was empty. Sam was gone, Dean figured he'd gone to the nearby coffee house to use their free internet; the hotel charged an ungodly amount for their WiFi. Dean snagged a beer from his bag and popped the cap.

"When did you start drinking so much?" Cas asked quietly.

Dean shrugged. "Can't remember."

"Does it help?"

Dean looked into the amber liquid in his beer, contemplating it, and set the bottle down. "Not really."

Castiel cocked his head to the side, an inscrutable expression on his face and one Dean knew all too well. Cas was two parts oblivious and one part weirdly omniscient. He called Dean on his bullshit with uncomfortable precision. Which was why Dean really wasn't wanting to get into it with the angel, not tonight. With the mark burning him like clockwork, he felt raw and laid open and on edge.

Cas usually could get answers out of him easier than anybody else, but talking about problems was like pulling teeth. He should know: he and Sammy usually ended up beating it out of each other. There would be time for the sharing and caring later.

Tonight he just wanted to pretend that his brother didn't have issues from hallucinating Lucifer, that Cas didn't have issues from simultaneously damning his brother to insanity and saving him, and that he didn't have a tattooed bug on his arm that would zap him with debilitating pain every few minutes. Pretending to be normal didn't work very well and didn't last very long, but it was nice to shut the world out for a while.

He deciding to forgo a shower and reached for the toothpaste. His dour expression frowned back at him in the mirror and he looked old and exhausted, even to himself. He wondered if it was just the long day, or if the tattoo was doing something to him beyond cramping the shit out of his hand and driving him up the wall.

He spat green mint toothpaste into the sink just as the mark began to burn again. Yep, never a friggan' break.

Dean glanced out of the bathroom at Castiel. The ex-angel was sitting on one of the florid pastel hotel beds, morosely examining his trench coat as though it held the mysteries of the Universe.

Cas didn't try to pry again, and Dean didn't try to pick up the conversation back up. He was too freaking tired.

Castiel didn't talk much about the stint spent in the asylum with the Lucifer hallucination in his head, or of Meggie dearest playing nurse, or anything before that; he was back to claiming not to remember. They all knew better. Dean was itching to ask him about it, but didn't want to pry. If that was one thing the hunters were good at, that was glossing over the elephant in the room and pretending it wasn't bothering anybody. Castiel would come clean eventually.

For the moment the angel was content to pretend to be human, and if not forget his past, then at least refuse to acknowledge it. The only blatantly visible sign of angel mojo was the ability to break the Impala out of hiding. Nobody seemed to notice his car, and for that Dean was very grateful.

His baby was not made to be hid like a kid in a closet with the cookie jar.

Dean washed his mouth out and crashed on the unoccupied bed with a heavy sigh. Sam was going to have to take the couch when he got back from the coffee place, but eh, he snoozed he lost. Sam had no trouble sleeping anyway, now that his hallucinations were out of his head. Dean found him sleeping in the weirdest places. The elder Winchester supposed it was Sam catching up on sleep now that he was relatively torture free, but passing out at a crime scene in his FBI get up? Hilarious, and also strange.

Like a good brother, Dean had been happy to get plenty of pictures.

He grinned and rolled over, punched his pillow, and was snoring a second later.

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The next morning, they went straight to the Shinto monastery and the monk who owed Bobby a favor. Kingston, New York was a town with a population of just over 23,000 and a nice spot on the map eight miles away from New York City.

Cas opted to keep the car company, and so Sam was left to keep his cranky brother from offending anyone. After admitting them immediately after they mentioned Bobby, Kaneto Otowa stared at Dean's hand lying on his small lacquered table for the better part of an hour. Otowa served them tea in little white handle-less cups while they waited. Sam seemed quite content to sit on folded knees and sip the very strong steaming green liquid, but Dean was getting restless. After fifteen minutes of sitting, Dean's knees were aching, and after twenty minutes his limbs were seizing up.

Dean opened his mouth to tell the monk to hurry the frig up, and Sam, sensing snark danger, jammed his elbow into his brother's side.

The older Winchester didn't say what he wanted to but he did stretch out his complaining limbs with a sigh. He was not made for sitting still, and the longer he was made to do it, the crankier he became. Dean glanced back at the doorway, as though he could see his beloved Chevy through the faded red plaster walls of the monastery. He wished for a clock, to better count the seconds until he could escape.

He began to drum his fingers on his thigh, missing the amused look the monk leveled at him over the tops of his thick glasses.

Sam grinned, suspecting the monk as waiting until Dean cracked. Which wasn't long.

"Oh come on," Dean muttered, breaking the silence, "This is taking forever. It's a freaking bug on my arm!"

The monk chuckled. "You lasted longer than I expected," he said through heavily accented english.

Dean stared at him incredulously. "You mean I've been sitting here so you could see if I cracked?"

"Yes, Mr. Winchester," the monk grinned toothily.

"You-"

Another one of Sam's well positioned elbow assaults cut off whatever Dean was going to say, and the elder Winchester glared at his little brother, rubbing his much abused ribs.

Still chuckling, the monk shoved Dean's hand back. "The centipede on your arm is haiku, praises to the goddess Izanami-no-Mikoto."

Dean frowned.

"You've got poetry on your arm, dude," Sam explained.

"That's awesome and all, but how do I get it off?" Dean waggled his fingers at the monk.

"The mark is permanent, but twenty dollars and I could write out a counter spell for you that will cancel out its affects," Otowa offered.

Dean pictured his wallet, and the lone fifty sitting in its leather folds. He hesitated. "Well-"

"Kanji must be written correctly to have full power," Otowa said sternly, "Otherwise the mark continue to torture you until you die."

Dean sighed, and handed over his fifty. "Do you have change?"

Otowa got to his feet and retrieved Dean's change, as well as strip of white rice paper covered with kanji. The monk wrapped the paper around Dean's hand, covering the centipede. Dean stared at it. Now he crackled when he moved.

"That's it?" Sam asked.

Otowa bowed. "_Hai_. It will halt the mark's movement and get rid of the pain."

The monk assured them to the door, bowing again. Dean didn't feel any different, save for the fact that millions of tiny red hot needles of agony weren't stabbing at him anymore. He gave an internal shrug. Oh well, they'd had weird fixes before that beyond all probability worked, it looked like this was another one.

"Hey," Dean asked, "How long do I wear my paper cast?"

Otowa smiled. "Not long, Mr. Winchester. Not long at all."

The monk's bright smile did not instill confidence, rather, it gave him the heebie jeebies. For some reason that had nothing to do with the tattoo on his hand, chills ran up and down his spine. They got out of there fast, and only when Dean swung into the driver's seat of the Impala did he fully relax. Cas was already asking questions and Sam was answering. Dean concentrated on their voices, even if he wasn't really paying attention to what they were saying.

Air rushed in his ears and his clenched hands strained at the worn steering wheel.

Bobby's friend wasn't the help he pretended. Dean had played enough poker in his life to know when someone had a bad hand. Otowa was jerking them around, he was sure of it. Why and how? He didn't know.

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><p><em>.x.<em>

When the black muscle car roared out of the monastery parking lot, Kaneto Otowa shuffled back to his office. He sat back at his table, knees folded under him on an embroidered pillow. He curled his gnarled hands around the fragile china cup that held his tea. The _gyuokuro_ was a deep, rich green, and it set off aromatic steam that filled the small room pleasantly. Otowa raised it to his lips and sipped, noting the presence that now crouched just behind him.

He knew that if he turned, he would see one of the junior monks kneeling behind him, forehead pressed to the wood floor in supplication.

Otowa set his cup down. "Izanami-no-Mikoto has marked the shorter Hunter. Follow him," he murmured in Japanese.

The monk behind him didn't move, but replied in kind. "How long do I have before his transformation is complete, Master?"

"A few weeks at most, perhaps," Otowa said thoughtfully, "Depending on the strength of his will, or how stubborn he is. I suspect it might be the latter."

"I overheard you telling him that there was a cure, sensei."

Otowa frowned over his cup, and the monk behind him seemed to sense his irritation because he pressed his forehead harder into the floor. "I told him what he needed to hear, for an old comrade's sake," Otowa said softly, "There is no escape from Izanami-no-Mikoto once she has shown her favor. The spell I gave him will slow the mark's progression and dull the pain, but more importantly it will allow you to better track him with out being conspicuous."

The younger monk said nothing.

"Follow them," Otowa said, "And observe. Izanami-no-Mikoto's mark will simply kill him if he is weak. Should he prove to be strong, the creature he will become must be exterminated. It cannot be allowed to manifest."

"_Hai, Otowa-sama_."

The monk left, scooting backwards on his knees. Otowa smiled, faintly, and raised his tea to his lips.

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><p><em>.x.<em>

_To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3 Pie and Demon Bros

**Author's Note:** Playlist:_Rooster by Alice in Chains, You're a Lie by Slash, It's a Long Way To The Top If You Want To Rock and Roll by ACDC_

**Disclaimer:** _I own nothing._

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**Chapter 3:** Pie and Demon Bros

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The tattoo's pain was noticeably absent after they left the monk's retreat, though Dean couldn't help but keep sporadically flexing his fingers to see if it would return. They felt numb and stiff, but the mark on his hand lay dormant- neither hurting, or, he assumed, growing. He frowned at it. It lay hidden under the paper strips, but he could feel the thing on his skin. It was an awful sensation, cold and clammy, like someone had slimed him with old jello.

He flexed his fingers again, and the paper crackled.

"Quit messing with it, dude." Sam swatted his brother's hand with the back of John Winchester's journal.

Dean scowled at Sam, but didn't argue with him. "Sorry," he muttered, "Couldn't help it."

"We'll figure this out," Sam said quietly, "We always do."

Dean glanced at him, and then turned his gaze back to the road. He knew they would. At least he hoped they would. They'd gotten out of worse before. Miraculously, but they had always managed to dodge cosmic bullets by the skin of their teeth. In the hunter circles it was always said that the Winchesters seemed to have the devil's luck. Dean wondered how much of that was true. They did get out of a lot of shit, but then again it was also whispered that whoever hunted with the Winchesters managed to knocked off after a while.

His mouth thinned. He refused to think about that one. So many bodies lying in the road behind them: Jo, Ellen, Dad, Bobby. The list got longer and sadder, and they just got older and more beat.

"You know what?" Dean said, pulling off the road into the parking lot of a squat, nondescript brick diner, "I need pie."

"Dean," Sam said, "We don't really have time to-"

Dean cut him off, throwing the Impala into park, "There is always time for pie."

His brother sighed and snagged his laptop. "At least they have WiFi."

Dean nodded. "And WiFi means my pie won't get in the way of you nerding out over obscure lore sites."

"I do not 'nerd' out," Sam muttered. "It's called being prepared. You should try it sometime."

Dean glanced in the rear view mirror to see if Cas was going to object to the diner and wasn't really surprised to see that the angel was gone.

"Wish Cas would actually hang around and not flutter off," Dean griped, locking the Impala and shoving his keys into his pocket. "He's worse than a butterfly in a brothel."

Sam shrugged. "Good luck telling him that. You're either going to have to suck it up, or put a leash on him."

"Do they make angelic leashes? You know, that's actually-"

The diner wasn't too crowded and they quickly found a booth at the back. The whole shebang was achingly familiar: crackling vinyl, greasy food, and a chipped wooden table. All road side diners seemed to blend together after a while, but Dean loved it, for they all had one thing in common.

"Pie," Dean said, when the waitress appeared at their table carrying a pad of paper and wearing a bored expression.

The waitress rolled her eyes and adjusted her apron over her ample chest and stomach. "We got a lot of different kinds of pie, sugar. What would you like?"

"I don't care, pick one. I will eventually eat them all so it doesn't matter which one I start with."

The waitress snorted, and then turned to Sam. "And you hun?"

"Um, water, thanks. And salad if you have it."

The waitress walked off with their orders, no doubt going straight to the back to gossip about the weird dude in booth twelve who claimed he was going to eat all their pie. Little did they know.

"You know," Sam said, setting up his laptop, "One day all of the crap you eat is going to come back around and bite you in the ass. Literally. You will be four hundred pounds, and I will have to haul you around on a special scooter."

"Shut up, Samantha."

Castiel's timely arrival broke up the brewing argument. The was a faint sound of feathers and wind, and Cas slid into the seat opposite Dean, next to Sam. Dean was so busy looking the angel over to see if he was getting any worse that he didn't notice the faint scent of sulphur and brimstone.

A well manicured finger gave Dean's ear a sharp flick and he yelped. "What the hell?"

Meg grinned at down at him rather waspishly and raised her finger to flick at his ear again. "Scoot over."

Dean grumbled and cast an accusing glare Castiel's way, wondering why the angel had thought it a good idea to bring a demon along, but he slid over to the wall so Meg could sit down. "And why is ugly, evil, and smoky sitting at the holy alter of pie?" he muttered.

Meg slapped the back of Dean's head without missing a beat. She shrugged off her jacket, tossing it over the backrest of the booth and sat down, squirming uncomfortably on the crackling vinyl. Cas smiled cheerfully at both demon and hunter, either choosing to ignore Dean's discomfort, or just not noticing.

"I thought Meg might enjoy the pie fest, and I thought it might be helpful if you got a second opinion on your hand," Cas said.

"Over done fruit pastries slammed together by sweaty meat suits," Meg muttered, glancing around the diner with a disproving stink eye, "Yay."

"I thought you'd be happy," Cas said, looking extremely pleased with himself. Either he was ignoring the overwhelming note of sarcasm, or just not noticing.

Meg opened her mouth to say something cutting, but the waitress had arrived with their orders. She set a massive heap of apple pie in front of Dean followed by a sizable boat of vanilla ice cream. Dean practically whimpered with pleasure, and didn't even wait for the waitress to completely set his pie down before he tugged it towards him.

"This is what you do in your spare time?" Meg asked incredulously, watching Dean spoon vanilla ice cream onto his steaming slab of apple pie.

"Do not knock the pie," he warned, jabbing his spoon at her.

"I'm shivering in terror," she mumbled. "Give me your hand, Winchester, so I can get out of here and not have to look at your sad sack face anymore."

Dean glowered at her but he held out his paper wrapped hand which Meg took between her thumb and forefinger, gingerly, like she was holding a fresh bag of dog doody. She carefully moved the paper aside so that she could read the Kanji underneath.

"_Hand of vengeance swift, birthed from the deepest darkness- rise and heed My call._ " Meg's voice grew a lilt as she read, and it was oddly pretty. "That's the rough translation, and it's repeated over and over," she said.

Sam grinned. "You fixed the haiku so that it made sense in English and still kept the syllable scheme? Never figured you as one for poetry."

Dean jumped on that one like a hawk. "Meg likes poetry? Aww!"

"How would you both like to have your entrails pulled out through your noses and wound around your heads like hats?" Meg snapped, bristling.

Castiel laid a hand on Meg's arm, which was resting on the table, and the demon surprisingly deflated like a small angry balloon. "Would you like some of my pie?" he asked.

Dean cocked his head, shrewdly watching the demon and the angel's subtle body language. For a moment he wondered just how crazy 'crazy Cas' was. For an angelic being with his marbles not all in the box, he was oddly persuasive at heading off Meg's demonic anger. He wondered what would happen if he poked at the bee hive with a metaphorical stick.

Unfortunately his brother knew him well.

"So," Sam said quickly, heading off whatever filthy comments Dean had brewing, "I didn't really have to do any digging. A search of the local newspaper brought up all kinds of stuff."

"Yeah, like what?" Dean asked, "Anything to do with this?" He waved his paper covered hand.

"Kind of. The obituaries for this town are bigger than average, and they're all weirdly related."

"Our kind of weird?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded.

"Trust you humans to always make things entertaining for the rest of us," Meg said.

"Be nice," Castiel told her.

Meg rolled her eyes, but the rest of them were shocked when she actually shut up.

"So, weird deaths," Dean prompted. "God I say that a lot."

Sam shrugged. "Well, if they weren't weird, we wouldn't be here."

"True enough. What's it say, Sammy?"

"All the obituaries I've read seem to have an Asian flair. Let's see, Paul Rogers died last week in his hot tub. The responding officers noted plants and pond scum growing in the water. Cornor's report says the muck and bacteria up the victim's nose is native to Japan, specifically areas around Kyoto." He tapped at his computer again. "And Nathalie Bustillo died last month in her home along with her bodyguard. Cat paw prints everywhere, and again, dirt had particulates native to Japan. Maybe a Kappa?" Sam mused.

"Bustillo, Bustillo, why do I know that name?" Dean muttered, glaring at dwindling pile of pie like it could tell him the answer.

Sam pursed his lips, "Well, she is one of the Ambassadors for France, and a high ranking member of the French government." At Dean's blank look Sam sighed. "And she was in the People Magazine's list of hottest figureheads of world government."

Dean snapped his fingers. "That's it!"

"Didn't figure you for a political activist. That actually involves thinking," Meg said, chuckling, "I think a pig just flapped past the window."

"Hah hah," Dean said, "I only know it because I listened to Frank rant about a government conspiracy involving poisoned chocolate mousse and hairspray, and she was one of the main offenders. And also, ya know, she's hot. Or was. For a cougar anyway."

"You are unbelievable."

Cas flagged down the waitress and pointed at Dean. "I'll have what he's having."

Dean swallowed the last of his pie. "And I will have the next piece in line."

"And I repeat," Sam said, "Four hundred pounds. Motor scooter."

"Not everybody will have your weirdass hippie rabbit food, but pie is forever," Dean snapped.

"Whatever."

Conversation lulled, and Dean took the time to devote himself fully to his pie. The next slice was a chocolate cream monstrosity with a hefty dollop of whipped cream and chocolate shavings with a smashed oreo cookie crust. He closed his eyes in almost orgasmic pleasure.

"It's going to be hard," Sam said finally. "These are all high government officials. It will be more difficult to just walk in and ask questions than usual; the FBI will be involved, and their bullshit radar is generally higher than the people we usually deal with."

Dean cleared his throat. "Well, with Frank gone, we're pretty much up shit creek with our normal ID's. Maybe he could've come up with something that would have stood up to scrutiny, but now?" He trailed off.

"Meg could help." Cas swallowed half his chocolate pie. "She was very helpful at the hospital."

Meg glared at him. "You offer my services pretty damn quickly, Big Bird. What's in it for me?"

He smiled serenely at her around a mouthful of pie and offered her a second fork. Meg rolled her eyes but she took it, scooping all the whipped cream off of Castiel's pie and shoving it into her mouth.

Dean had an answer for that one. "Remember? It's cold out here and you're here to help me? Friends, right?"

"Ugh, that's not-" Meg started.

"You made friends?" Cas said happily, "That's nice of you."

Meg glowered and ate another massive forkful of Castiel's pie.

Dean grinned. "Well, a not-friend might forget about the deal, but we're pals. Right? Pals have no problem with favors every once and a while."

"Ugh, fine!" Meg threw up her hands. She slid out of her seat and raked a hand through her wavy dark hair. Snagging her jacket, she yanked it on. "For the record, I hate you all."

Dean raised a forkful of pie as Meg stalked out the door of the diner.

"Don't hurt anybody," Sam called after her.

The dirty diner door slammed behind her, shaking the windows of the place.

"I think we annoyed her. Do you think she's annoyed?" Sam mused.

"Nah. We're awesome." Dean shoved aside his empty plate and flagged down the waitress. "Pie!"

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_To be continued, please review!_


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